


push the sky away

by doubtthestars



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, but im not entirely sure, featuring lukas' new tattoo, i think an accurate description for this is schmoopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:45:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're going to die in your best friend's arms.</p><p>Lukas still has to surrender himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	push the sky away

**Author's Note:**

> I've been feeling like shit lately. sometimes all you need is a hug.

Time moves funny in Italy. It has been months, but the days feel like years, slowly swimming in front of his eyes like whales in the deep ocean that smells like burnt bread and salt.

It is easy to take a needle to his chest, much easier than the ten years to claim that fourth star had been. The pull and ache of taking a deep breath into his lungs reminds him that he may not be home, but the claim is there, across his chest next to his heartbeat. Germany is in his veins, gold clinging to his lashes every time he closes his eyes and thinks back to the Brazilian sun.

The next time he sees Bastian, there is a fine tremor traveling across the arc of his shoulders that hasn't stopped since he's been back in London. It hasn't escaped Basti's attention, so he pulls him closer, during practice, during Jogi's speeches and in the spaces in between when they're alone, breathing each other's air as quiet as can be. Green eyes ask questions that blue eyes shut against, so Bastian goes to a different sense. His fingers quest across his skin with easy affection wrought from the years spent in hotel rooms and green fields. 

Fingertips press into the edges of dark stars, a slight pinch one, two, three, four times. Lukas thinks it should be harder to breathe under his hand, but it isn't. His lips curl at the edges. Bastian's touch belongs on him just like the ink. It is partly Bastian's anyway, because he can't spell it out as simply as his name on his wrist. A sigh escapes him. Bastian shifts, wrapping him up in the warmth of his own body. There are galaxies in freckles on the shoulder his head rests on. 

"I'm tired." softly spoken. Breathing life into the words, he feels terrible about them, wanting to reach into the silence and take them back. He made this bed when he was a child and he had never regretted giving his heart to a football and his boots, but the spreading panic underneath his skin didn't stop on wishes alone. 

It had taken 48 goals to make him feel worthy enough to carry his pride and love for the family he had found in white kits. 

"Then rest. I'll keep you." Home he knows, is not a place, not a coordinate on a map. It is wherever Louis laughs, wherever Bastian is, and where he can feel the sun on his face without worry. He has reached 124 caps, remembers Miro's retirement story, and falls into the hazy pull of sleep. 

1+2+4=7

**Author's Note:**

> borrowed the line in the summary from richard siken's "planet of love"


End file.
